Pitter Patter.

The sun I awoke to, laughed at my joy. It's warmth tickled my nose, like a loving graze it played. But to teach me a lesson, it scampered with a giggle. It hid behind trees, it hid behind the hanging washing, it hid behind the sky itself.

I played hide and seek with this child called the sun. It's peeking so taunting. It's bright stare brushing my face.

And like a child worn out with such fun and games, it faded and left me, morning just begun. But as we learn from the little one's in our life, beauty is not just bright light and sun's glow. It is also in the grey days, and such dire weather brings beauty too.

Sugar coated.

Give me your bad day.

That way I can roll it in hundreds and thousands and dust it with sugar. I can prepare a box covered with shimmering paper. I'll lay it in a bed of petals and gently cover in with tissue paper.

Lets make your horrid day a nice one. Because it's not in charge. And nothing can resist joy when wrapped in sweetness.

Spacial understanding.

Around me are clouds. They waft with breezes unseen, sometimes lurking in a wreath around my head. Sometimes swathing my shoulders like a shawl. Sometimes drifting in through my ears and creating a storm within.

Wondering Wandering.

A day completed.

Confucious.

I like to speak to myself in my thoughts. As a child I often wondered in what accent this conversation takes place. If different education levels change the way in which we spoke to our mind. If the language in our heads is universal or subject to what we speak outwardly. If a microphone were connected to my thoughts, ramblings several voices thick would burst forth, on seperate journeys to different conclusions. And I most certainly would be surprised to learn the things I was thinking as most of the time I struggle to keep track of it all.

I like to create stories too indepth and detailed to be expressed past the medium of thought, in order to try and keep as much of my brain busy as possible. To try desperately to guide it in one uniform direction. but distraction flashes it's wild colour and excitable possibilities and through the window goes that concentration, along with the memory of what I was busy concocting. Woe is me.

Confucious states the mind is your temple, the highest part of the body that makes the hardest problems simple - Black monks

Darn you and your structured mind Confucious.

Rediscovery.

The words came back. They'd hidden behind a wild mind, who was quite content hiding behind the thin veil of forgetfulness.

But once again my thought spills past consciousness to a brightly lit reality. Accidently maybe? Well maybe not wholly by accident but maybe not with full will and purpose.

So noted, ever so slightly tinged with doubt.. I have returned to this diary of sorts. To exist again.